


Balulalow

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Winchester & Jody Mills Friendship, Fever, Gen, Grief, Hurt Dean, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s13e03 Patience, S13 Coda, Sick Dean, little bit of case fic, one mention of implied ocd tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 16:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12610384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: It's when he walks away after—has to walk away, before the floodgates open, before he breaks down the rest of the way, because if there's one thing Sam can handle less than an emotional Dean it's a crying Dean, and Dean can't handle him not handling it. This is his kid brother that he raised, but somewhere along the way Dean must have done something wrong if Sam can't see what's going on here. If he thinks that volunteering Dean to take responsibility for this kid that ain't actually a kid is A okay. Or maybe not. Maybe this one thing out of a billion things that are his fault is not on him.





	Balulalow

 

 

 

_safe in god's cradle_

 

 

_But I can't!_

It's when he walks away after— _has_ to walk away, before the floodgates open, before he breaks down the rest of the way, because if there's one thing Sam can handle less than an emotional Dean it's a crying Dean, and Dean can't handle him not handling it. This is his kid brother that he raised, but somewhere along the way Dean must have done something wrong if Sam can't see what's going on here. If he thinks that volunteering Dean to take responsibility for this kid that ain't actually a kid is A okay. Or maybe not. Maybe this one thing out of a billion things that are his fault is not on him.

He rounds a corner on his way to his room, head down, heart hammering away and stumbling in his chest, and his left knee gives a painful twinge. Dean almost falters, then pushes past it—so he got knocked around some and then spend thirty plus hours in the car. He just needs his room, his bed, his headphones. Needs away from that kid he can't look at and from Sam, who won't look at Dean.

He throws his bag down at the foot of his bed, locks his door. He's going to need a shower at some point, but just—not now. Not while it's not safe to come out.

Dean shrugs out of his jacket, then sits down heavily on his bed to unlace his boots, and it happens again. This time the twinge in his knee is sharp enough to make him gasp, and he carefully straightens his leg and rides out the pain until it's died down to a dull throbbing. He rubs over his kneecap and grimaces when that doesn't help. It doesn't make sense; he can't remember taking a hit there. He remembers the last time he did though, and why it should be healed, and— _no_ , no. Not thinking about that.

He lies down and curls up and ignores his stupid knee, reaches for his headphones and his mp3 player that Sam would give him shit for if he saw what color it is. Dean presses play without checking what song he's on, closes his eyes and leaves the volume on too high. Lets it drown out his thoughts. If it's too loud to think, it's too loud to remember.

>

Dean startles out of sleep when his anxiety spikes, heart racing. He can't remember falling asleep, but he's lying halfway atop his headphones and the music is off, his playlist finished. The screen of his mp3 player flashes with a low battery warning.

He looks around in a daze, swallows around a dry mouth. Then grunts when he tries to roll onto his back and his knee protests. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to settle his heart rate, then heaves himself up, throws back the covers. The sudden chill makes him shiver, but he struggles out of his jeans and then carefully prods at his knee.

Nothing. No bruising, no swelling. It just hurts.

Fantastic.

Dean forces himself out of bed and then forces himself into the shower. Any other day, he'd take himself in hand and get himself off slowly, let the relaxation of a good orgasm shake loose whatever tension in his knee is hurting him. Now, his dick hangs pale and limp between his legs, and he leans one arm on the shower wall to take weight off his bum knee, and he shrubs away the grime and sweat mechanically. He's back in his room before his brain's even caught up to the change of location, and the last thing he wants is go out there again and risk running into any judgmental brothers or might-kill-everyone not-kids.

But Dean neglected to feed himself dinner last night, and maybe he's lucky and can have his kitchen to himself for five minutes. Except he's still like fifty feet from there and he can already smell burned food. This is why he hates anyone else tinkering around in the kitchen; even thinking about any kind of mess or disarray there is making his palms itch. Sam can burn fricken water. He better not have ruined one of Dean's favorite pots.

Five feet away, and he limps to a halt. So much for having his kitchen to himself.

“—don't really cook much. Is there, um. Anything else you like?”

A pause.

“I like nougat. It. It makes me _happy_.”

There's an audible smile in Jack's voice, and Dean needs to close his eyes and steady himself against the wall.

“Huh. You know, if Dean would stop being such a stubborn ass I think you both would get along really well.”

His brother's voice is a blend of amusement and frustration, and Dean can't fucking believe him. Betrayed, he shuffles around and limps back the way he came as quietly as he can, an outcast in his own home.

>

Dean decides to find a hunt and get the hell outta dodge. But after two beers and over an hour of scouring the web, he's got nothing. He's about to call one of their hunter contacts, but then he just sits there staring at his call history.

Numbers saved to his phone—numbers he's got memorized, and no one is ever going to pick up again at the other end of the line.

Suddenly, the thought of going out there and seeing even more death is almost enough to make him forget about finding a hunt. But hunting is the job, and the job is all he's got left.

“Screw it.” Dean chucks his phone to the side, gets up and starts packing a bag. He needs to get out of here, now. Something's gonna turn up at some point, it always does, but he can't sit around here waiting. He _can't_.

He runs into Sam in the hallway. Dean keeps walking.

“Where are you going? Dean—”

Sam sounds confused but his expression screams annoyance. Dean side-steps him and hoists his bag higher on his shoulder. He doesn't even try to hide his slight limp.

“Out. I can't be here right now.”

For a moment, Sam doesn't follow him, and Dean almost breathes a sigh of relief. But then, “Dean, wait—just _wait_ a goddamn minute!” And then Sam's at his shoulder, looming over him and easily outmatching Dean with his longer strides, because of fucking course nothing can ever be easy for Dean.

“What does that _mean_? What the hell do you think that is even going to fix?”

They're almost at the garage now, and Dean's clenching his fists in an effort to stay calm and keep walking in spite of Sam's aggravated gesturing and posturing beside him.

“This ain't about fixing fucking anything.”

Dean's knee twinges with every step up the stairs that lead to the garage, and he grits his teeth against it.

“Okay, then what is it about?”

It's clear from Sam's tone that he's not actually up for having any kind of discussion, but Dean's too angry to care. He opens the trunk, throws his bag inside, and slams it shut again, already moving toward the driver's side.

“It means I need some fucking _space_!” Dean tries hard to keep up the aggression, but he can hear the frantic note that is slipping into his voice, feel the way his legs just want to collapse under him so he can curl up into ball and not deal with anything anymore.

“ _Space_ ,” Sam repeats, incredulous, and Dean really, really want to punch him. He white-knuckles his grip on Baby's door and shifts his weight further onto his right foot. Forces himself to breathe. “You mean that thing you got so pissed off at Mom for needing?”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment and clenches his jaw, then gets into the driver's seat. His heart is thumping with adrenaline and at the same time he's so tired of their screaming match already he can barely make himself keep talking.

“Yeah, that thing.”

Sam throws his arms up.

“Great.”

“Yeah. Good talk.”

Dean reaches over and slams Baby's door shut. He turns the engine over and forces himself not to look at Sam again as he peels out of the garage.

>

For over an hour, Dean just drives with the music off and the window on his side slightly down.

He just needs to breathe.

The anger that made him push down on the accelerator a little too hard has drained out of him, leaving behind nothing but weariness. Dean's contemplating just finding a quiet place to stop the car and crash for a few hours when his phone pings. One glance at the screen shows him it's a news alert. With a sigh, he signals and parks the car on the shoulder.

He scrolls through the news report, and, yep, haunted cemetery. Which means it's either a bust, or there's a lot of grave digging to look forward to. Super.

It's in Watertown, South Dakota, so Dean shoots off a quick text to Jody that he's going to take care of it and she doesn't need to put anyone on it. He restarts the car, eases her back on the road. His phone vibrates with a message a couple minutes later. Jody is asking him if he wants to swing by after. Dean's driving, so he can't text back—he could call, but. Dean's not sure what to say. Jody knows what happened, more or less, but they haven't really talked about it. The last thing Dean wants is to take advantage of Jody's compassion and unload all his emotional crap on her. He hates guys who use women like that. Jody deserves better.

The next time Dean stops for gas, he sends her a quick and deliberately vague _I'll let you know,_ unable to give words to his fear that he might overstay his welcome if he says yes.

He arrives late afternoon and doesn't even bother with checking into a motel to change into his fed suit. For one thing, he's freezing for whatever reason and it looks like it's going to rain. And then, shrugging into another flannel and putting his jacket on over it, the beige one that's a little too big on him—it's stupid, but it makes him feel a little less like a single punch to the face would be enough to put him down and make him stay down right now.

On an hunch, Dean asks around the neighborhood and it doesn't take him long until he finds out whose ghost has been haunting the local cemetery. Lauren Milton, 44, recently died of a heart attack that no one realized she was having until it was too late. The family buried her beside her abusive ex-husband against her explicitly stated wishes. Dean stares at her headstone for a long moment. _In God's Care_ , it says. What a damn lie. He grimly starts digging up her grave. It feels completely unfair that she's the one he's going to have to disturb. If someone pulled that crap with him, he'd be a fucking pissed off spirit too.

Dean's exhausted by the time he's halfway done, and then, on top of everything else, the light drizzle that started about an hour after it got dark turns into a full on downpour. He keeps at it until his fingers cramp with cold around the shovel and he's forced to heave himself out of the grave and take shelter under the nearest tree. He crouches down, shaking, blowing into his hands to try and warm them up again.

He's gonna freeze if he doesn't keep moving. Dean tucks his hands under his armpits, closes his eyes.

Why the fuck did they built a pyre. Why the fuck did he watch until it was all burned to the ground—now none of them got any place to go and grieve, and it's fucking them all over.

With time, the rain and wind are gonna get rid of the ashes and then there'll be nothing left. Nothing.

Dean shivers violently, his throat tight. He moves his hands to press them into his eyes and stop the hot itchiness there, and then suddenly there is a cold touch to his arm and he whirls around.

Sunken, fever bright eyes stare at him. Cold fingers curl around his forearm, tugging insistently. Lauren's face is mottled with bruises, her dyed blond curls are full of dirt.

Dean's heart misses a beat, his breath fogs in front of his mouth. He's about to rip his arm out of her grip and make a lunge for the tire iron in his bag when she speaks.

“Please,” she whispers, her voice a thin, frantic wheeze. “Please. Bury me somewhere else. I'll go away, I promise. Please don't make me stay there.”

Dean freezes, stares at her. A tear runs down her pale, dirty cheek.

“Okay, listen,” he breathes. “I'm sorry but I can't move that casket. 'specially not in this rain, it's too heavy.”

She violently shakes her head, her shoulders trembling. “I don't care about that thing. Just put my body somewhere else. Please!” Her hand fists his jacket. There's dirt under her nails like she's tried to crawl away through the packed earth. “Please, I have to get away from him!”

Dean swallows heavily and closes his eyes for a moment. “Okay,” he rasps out. “Okay, just. Wait here.”

Dean feels like each of his limbs way a ton when he lowers himself back down into the half dug up grave. The rain has let up a bit but he's drenched in a matter of minutes anyway. He puts his head down and keeps going, forcing himself to ignore the water seeping into his clothes and the pain in his back and hands. His knee hurts too, but not any worse than it did earlier, which confirms his suspicion of why it's hurting at all. He doesn't dwell on it for now. There's just him and the dirt that he's fighting, and he focuses on that until his mind shuts down. He sags with relief when the shovel finally hits a solid surface. He throws the thing over the edge of the grave, and just breathes for a couple seconds, bracing himself.

He grimaces when he pries the coffin open. Yeah, no, he's gonna need the blanket from the car or he's not going to be able to carry her.

Lauren is still where he left her, flickering in and out, watching him anxiously. Dean really hopes her ex-husband went straight to Hell. If Crowley were still alive, Dean might've called him up for confirmation.

Dean holds his hands up, ducks his head. “Just gonna go get something from the car. I'll be right back. Okay?”

She licks her lips nervously, her eyes wide with fear.

“Promise?”

Dean tries his best to smile. “I promise.”

>

“Where?”

Dean's arms are shaking with the load his carrying. He no longer knows if he's freezing or burning up.

Lauren tugs at his sleeve, and he follows her.

She's chosen a quiet place with a sturdy tree. The branches hang low over the ground, protective. Dean puts her body down, then goes back and gets his shovel.

By the time he's managed to dig a hole that's about deep enough, his arms are shaking so bad that he needs to sit down and just catch his breath for a couple minutes. Fuck, but he's dizzy. Dean tries to remember when he ate anything last and draws a blank.

“I'm sorry.”

Dean's so caught up in berating himself for not making sure to grab a bite before digging six feet deep holes in the ground that it takes him a second to realize Lauren is talking to him.

“Huh?”

“I'm sorry.”

Dean throws her a confused look, and she gestures vaguely at the wreck he must be.

Dean blows out a breath, shakes his head. “Not your fault.”

He staggers to his feet, then carefully picks up her body. He lowers her down, then almost doesn't manage to get back out of the grave. He's sprawled beside it for a stretched out moment, feeling like every ounce of strength has been drained out of him. Fuck. _Fuck_ , he can't do this.

When he finally manages to sit up and lift his head, Lauren is looking past him and at her body in the hole. Her face is the picture of relief, and Dean forces himself back on his feet.

It takes forever to fill the hole back up. The inside of Dean's palms is burning, but it barely even registers. There's just the next painful breath, the sound of more dirt falling down into Lauren's grave.

The moment it's done and he lets the shovel slip from fingers gone numb with cold, Lauren lights up beside him. He blinks at her, panting, legs all wobbly.

Lauren smiles at him, all traces of fear gone from her eyes.

“ _Thank you_.”

Then she dissolves into light and is gone.

>

Dean just stands and looks at her grave for while. This part of Mount Hope Cemetery seems like it's more or less abandoned. It's likely no one is even going to notice the upturned earth.

Dean stands and stares at the dirt, and then he picks up his lantern and the shovel. The shovel slips from his fingers on the first try, and he curses under his breath.

Then curses again when he realizes he's still got to shovel all the dirt back into her original grave.

At some point while he fixes up the grave, things start getting hazy. Dean's crashing, and some part of him knows he is, but what's the point? He's got to finish this.

It's already so bright outside he doesn't need his lantern anymore by the time he stumbles his way out of the cemetery. The next thing he knows he's standing over Baby's open trunk, looking for the wool blanket because he's drenched and freezing, then remembers he used it to wrap up Lauren's corpse in it. It's stupid and incredibly pathetic, but at that moment, the fact that he doesn't have his blanket anymore, that it's gone, makes his throat close up and his vision swim.

Dean makes it into the front seat, and then world tilts and goes from hazy to black, black.

>

One moment his Mom is standing beside him, and the next she's burning up from the inside, flames eating her skin, and Dean's frozen in shock. She's screaming for him, and he can't move a damn inch. Terror climbs up his throat, and then he's the one crying out in pain when the fire burns his hands—but he doesn't flinch even while his body is begging for him to stop, even while fingers fist into his clothes and try to hold him back. Because there's Cas' body on that pyre. Dean put him there, and he thought it was okay if he burned him, but suddenly it's not okay anymore. Dean can't do it, he can't watch it, he _can't_ —

Dean's knee hits something solid, and the pain is enough to jolt him awake with a gasp. Heart racing, Dean blinks his eyes open and for several long, agonizing seconds, has no idea where he is or what's going on. It feels like he's burning up, but when he frantically pats down his body, all he feels is damp clothing and clammy skin. He's sweating and freezing at the same time, he—fever. He's got a fever.

With a groan, Dean struggles up into a more or less sitting position. Dim light stabs into his eyes and his entire body aches. For a moment, he just sits there blinking, totally disoriented. Then he closes his eyes, forces in a deep breath. Exhales slowly. Right. Hunt, grave digging, passing out. He looks around for his phone, finally locates it in the footwell. Reaching for it and straightening up again makes the muscles in his arm burn and his head dizzy. He swipes over the screen and blinks at it. It's past noon, and he's got a text and a missed call from Jody.

Dean hits redial, presses the phone to his ear.

He's determined to tell Jody that it's better for everyone involved if he just keeps to himself for now, right up until she picks up and says, “Hey, kid, you okay?”

He's not.

Dean tries to speak, but the words get lost somewhere and nothing comes out of his mouth. He doesn't want to lie. He should find a motel room and sweat this out, but he can't be alone. He _can't_ be alone, doesn't want to, and why is that such a goddamn crime?

“Dean?”

“Jody—” Dean's voice sounds about as wrecked as he feels, and he needs to clear his throat twice before he can continue. “Can I—are you home?”

“Not for another three hours. Why, what's wrong?”

Dean bites his lip, blinks his eyes rapidly to pretend they're not filling with tears.

“It's, uh.”

It's nothing. Forget it. Don't worry about me.

“Can—can I come by maybe?”

“Of course, Dean.” Jody's voice is softer now, and it makes it even harder for Dean to keep himself in check. “Alex should be home, she'll let you in. I'll text her. How far away are you?”

Dean swallows, closes his eyes. “'Bout one and a half hours.”

“Got it. Drive safe, okay?”

There's a smile in her voice, but mostly concern. Dean forces out a quick, “Okay,” then hangs up before he loses it completely. Then he spends at least an entire minute white-knuckling the steering wheel, forcing himself to keep breathing, muttering okay, okay, _okay_ , under his breath.

He rubs over his face when he finally feels he's gotten himself together enough to drive, skin heated with fever. Then turns the engine over, carefully steers Baby out of the deserted side street he parked her in.

Dean ducks into a gas station bathroom halfway to Sioux Falls to take a piss and splash cold water on his face. The soap makes his sore palms burn. His eyes are glassy, mud is splattered all over his clothes, and he can't stop shivering.

At least he doesn't feel his stupid knee as much, because right now every single one of his joints is aching something fierce.

Dean cranks up the heat, and while that brings him momentary relief, soon he feels like he's boiling in his own sweat again. Sam calls at some point, and Dean lets it go to voicemail, and then immediately feels guilty. Sam is grieving and stressed out as well. He parks on the shoulder, sends a quick _on way to Jody's_ . A moment later, his phone vibrates in his hand with  _case?_

 _No_ , Dean sends back. For a long minute, his phone stays silent. Then, _okay. Just wanted to check in_. Dean doesn't know what to reply to that, so he chucks his phone onto the passenger seat and gets the car back onto the road.

By the time he pulls up in front of Jody's house he feels like every last bit of energy has drained out of him. He knows it's mostly his own fault. He didn't eat, didn't sleep. But he doesn't even have the energy to get mad at himself.

Dean limps to Jody's door. Alex' eyes go wide when she takes him in, but she doesn't comment on the picture he must make. “Uh, hey.” She holds up her phone. “Jody texted me, said you'd swing by.” She holds the door open for him, “You want some water or something?”

Dean shakes his head. He can't look her in the eyes. “No, uh. Thanks. I'll just wait over here.” With that, he hobbles over to the couch in the living room, sinks down in it and puts his hand over his eyes.

Alex hasn't left yet, he can hear the rustle of her clothing as she shifts her weight. “I've got a couple friends over for studying, so um. I gotta get back upstairs.”

Dean just nods without lifting his head or taking his hand away from his eyes. He can hear Alex hesitate for another beat, then she walks away and up the stairs.

Dean slumps even further into himself once she's gone, guilt sitting heavy in his gut. He's intruding. They're a family, they've got friends over, and he's intruding on their life. But he's too weak to get up and leave again. Always too weak.

>

Dean doesn't think he falls asleep or passes out again, but he startles when suddenly there's a hand on his back and Jody is saying his name.

“Dean? Hey.”

Dean takes his hand away and lifts his head. Stares at her.

Jody is all worry where she sits beside him, looking him up and down, “What happened?”

Dean can't. He swallows and closes his eyes, shakes his head. He can't.

Jody is silent for a moment, and then, to his immense relief, all she says is, “Okay, how about that—you go take a hot shower and crash in Claire's bed for a couple hours. Sound good?”

Her hand is rubbing slow circles into his back, and she sounds cheerful and calm, and Dean doesn't know how he can say yes.

“Jody, it's—” Oh god his voice sounds horrible. Like he's about to cry, and maybe he should, but he's so _tired_ . “It's not your job. You don't have to—I mean, it's your home. I don't—” Dean rubs at his face. He can't even make his stupid sentences make sense.

Jody seems to get it though.

“Dean, if it were too much, I wouldn't offer it. Okay?”

She waits until he manages the wobbliest nod in the history of wobbly nods, then tugs gently at his arm. “C'mon, mud monster. Off to the shower.”

>

Dean perches awkwardly at the edge of Claire's bed, finally clean and in his sleeping clothes, but still shivering. He really could've gone for a scalding hot shower, but with the fever he's running that'd be a recipe for disaster.

Even though Claire doesn't actually live here anymore and most of her stuff is gone, it still feels like Dean shouldn't be here. He ain't Jody's kid, adopted or otherwise, and she shouldn't have to carve out another space of her home for him just cause he's a little fucked up about stuff right now.

His knee twinges sharply. Dean grimaces and rubs his palm over it, then quickly drops his hand and schools his face into a neutral expression when there's a knock on the half-open door.

“Yeah?”

Jody walks in with a tray in her arms, and the guilt in Dean's gut flares up all over again. He stands quickly to take it from her, even though his knee hates him for it.

There's a glass of water on it, a couple of Tylenol, and a steaming plate of stir-fry.

“Jody, you didn't—” Dean carefully sits back down on the bed with the tray in his lap, blinking dizziness from his eyes. “You didn't have to.”

Jody rolls her eyes and sits down next to him, the mattress dipping with her weight.

“Dean, all I did was stick a plate of left-overs in a microwave.”

She makes it sound like it's no big deal, but Dean fumbles with the tray in his hands and can't look at her.

“Hey.” Jody's voice shifts from mock-exasperated to gentle, fond. It's even worse. She puts a hand on his shoulder and rubs at it. “What's on your mind?”

Dean swallows. He still can't look at her. “We don't deserve you,” he says, then immediately cringes because _he_ really doesn't. And yet here he is.

Jody only hums and rubs his shoulder again. “You know, maybe you do,” she says. There's an audible smile in her voice, and Dean sniffs and manages a watery laugh.

Jody pats him on the back and then stands.

“C'mon. Eat up and then get some rest.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Dean finally manages to lift his head and meet her eyes. She snorts at his words but smiles, then softly shuts the door behind herself.

Dean downs the Tylenol and finishes his dinner like a good boy. It still feels super awkward, sitting in Claire's room and eating Jody's food, but exhaustion is starting to hit him like a ton of bricks. He barely manages to set the tray down and shut off the light, then crawl under the sheets and curl up, before he passes out.

>

Because this is Dean's life, his stupid body misconstrues the whole situation as permission to get really sick. He wakes only a couple hours after having fallen asleep, shaking and shivering and sweating with fever.

It's not even that dark in the room, but he still fumbles around the nightstand until he finds the switch for the bedside lamp. Then he lies there, panting and looking around the room in a daze. Something about having a fever always messes with the timeline in his head, and it takes him a moment to understand where he is and why.

Dean sleeps fitfully after that and keeps waking up disoriented, heart racing. His knee feels like someone stabbed at it with a hot poker but Dean's too exhausted to get up and try and find an ice pack.

Not that it would help much. Jody asked what was wrong with it, if it needed checking out. Dean shook his head no. He knows what's going on with it by now, and no amount of checking out would help.

At one point, Dean dreams of a shadowed figure in a beige coat sitting at his bedside. They've got their back to him, and Dean doesn't understand.

“Cas?” He asks, pleads. Dean tries to reach for him. “Cas,” he begs. _Hold me_ , he wants to say. _Hold me, please_.

Then he startles awake with his face wet and murky morning light filtering through the curtains.

Jody checks on him a while later before she leaves for work. Dean struggles upright when she knocks and asks to come in. She brings him more water and doesn't comment on how red his eyes probably are. Dean's so grateful he almost cries all over again.

“See you later, okay? There's some leftover breakfast downstairs if you want it.”

Dean just nods, and hates himself for how he can't say thank you because he doesn't dare open his mouth.

He dozes until some point after noon when, finally, his fever breaks. Then he drags himself into the shower, and puts on as many layers as possible without wearing a jacket inside. No one's home when he finally gets downstairs, and the dishes from this morning are still in the sink. Dean hurts, and he's still got a mild temperature, but he's also itching for something to do to distract himself. Something to pay Jody back in however small way he can.

Dean reheats some of the left-overs and eats them, though more because he doesn't want to disappoint Jody or waste food than out of any real desire to eat. He washes the dishes after, dries them and puts them away, then wipes the counters clean.

He'd really like to cook something so Jody won't have to, but the more time he spends in the kitchen the harder it gets for him to keep himself in neutral. Dean had this dream, this stupid, unrealistic dream of having all his family in the bunker, and cooking a big dinner for them every night. He's never going to have that now. He's never going to make a pot roast for his Mom, he's never going to go to bed and be held by strong arms and feel safe. There's never going to be anyone he'll want to be held like that by ever again. He's never even going to see him again.

The next thing Dean knows, he's back on the couch and his knee throbs and he turns his face into the backrest and inhales the dry scent of the upholstery.

He must cower there for a long while, because when Jody comes home he still hasn't moved.

There's the sound of keys being put away, and then something like grocery bags being put down on the kitchen table. The refrigerator opening and closing. Dean hangs onto those sounds and just tries to breathe.

When the couch dips behind him, he uncurls himself and tries to say Hi, but it just doesn't happen.

“Hey, kiddo. Feeling any better?”

Dean puts a hand over his eyes and shakes his head.

Jody is silent for a moment. Then, “Dean, could you look at me?” It's hard, but Dean manages to turn and lift his head enough to meet her eyes. Jody is smiling a bit, but she looks sad. “Dean, I think—I think it could help you to talk about what happened. But if you can't, yet? _You don't have to_. Okay?”

The words sink into Dean, and he can't help it. He cries.

It's not the silent tears from before. It's ugly noises he's unable to stifle in his throat, and him curling over his chest and trying to hide his face in his hands. His fingers get wet and his nose and his mouth too. His throat burns and his head pounds, but it doesn't stop. He can't stop. The sadness just keeps flowing, until he can't imagine what's it like to feel anything else.

Jody stays with him, just lets him get it all out. He can hear her say something to him a couple times, but can't make out the words. The entire world consists of the pain inside his chest that feels big enough to swallow him whole. Like it's just going to break all his ribs and eat him alive from the inside.

When he finally comes back to himself, his breathing is slowing down and he's more sniffing than sobbing. The woolen quilt from the couch is draped over him. Jody is rubbing his back, and making quiet _sh sh_ noises.

Once he's breathing normally again, Jody briefly gets up and comes back with a glass of water and a couple of tissues. Dean wipes at his face with them, feeling embarrassed heat color his probably already blotchy cheeks.

Jody doesn't comment on it, or on how he can't meet her eyes again. She just rubs at his back through the quilt, “Gonna go start dinner. You good for now?”

Dean closes his eyes and nods, and she says okay and leaves for the kitchen.

For a while, Dean just sits there and concentrates on his breathing. His knee hurts, but less.

Dean's not stupid. He knows what phantom pain is, how it can happen with injuries related to trauma. It ain't the first and probably not the last time he's got to deal with it.

When he feels like he's gotten himself together as much as that's possible at the moment, he goes and helps Jody with dinner. It's a little awkward again when Alex comes home from soccer practice, but Dean takes awkward over being alone right now.

He does the dishes again and feels so exhausted after that he decides to just go to bed. He draws Jody into a hug and tries to put as much gratitude as he can into the “Thank you” that he manages to rasp out.

“Dean?” Jody asks just as he's about to go upstairs. “Why don't you stay for a couple more days? Alex says she'd be okay with it as long as there's no talk about monsters while she's around, and she's with her friends most of the time anyway. I think you could use the break, and I wouldn't mind the company.”

When Dean hesitates, she adds, “Think about it?” Dean nods, and then gets up the stairs.

It's too generous. It's too fucking generous but Dean might still say yes. At some point, it's going to make him feel guilty, but he could use some time off. When he runs out of household chores to do to keep him occupied, he can always work on Baby. There's bound to be mud smeared all over her upholstery.

Dean mulls it over until he runs out of energy. Then, he just lies there on the left side of the bed and stares into the dark, into the empty space.

“I miss you.”

His eyes are wet again. Dean closes them and swallows, and pulls the covers higher over his back.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not a native speaker and this isn't beta read. if you find mistakes, please let me know!
> 
> find me on tumblr at [cuddlemonsterdean](http://cuddlemonsterdean.tumblr.com/)
> 
> balulalow: mary's lullaby for the infant jesus


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